


Hello From the Other Side

by DancingTurtles, froggy_freek



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ghosts, M/M, Swearing, vague depictions of the afterlife
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingTurtles/pseuds/DancingTurtles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/froggy_freek/pseuds/froggy_freek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe, Modern: Clint is a screw-up in life, having failed out of school, the army, and his last job. But there is one thing he’s good at, and that’s ghost-whispering—and when Bucky Barnes finds himself in need of help, Clint is the only person up to the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello From the Other Side

**Author's Note:**

> Written (very frantically over the past week) for the Winterhawk big bang challenge. A big thank you to the lovely froggy_freek for the beautiful artwork! 
> 
> Please note that this fic is not related to "If there's something strange in your neighborhood", although it did start from that idea.

 

 

 

Clint first saw Mr. Tall-dark-and-handsome on his way to 7-11.

“Woah, Lucky—” he said when Lucky jerked on the leash, almost pulling Clint off the sidewalk and into the dark alley that looked below standards for the average city rat. Despite Clint’s protests, the dog dragged him further in, happily investigating the stranger leaning up against the wall.

“Sorry about that, dude.” He jerked Lucky back before the dog could jam his head into the guy’s crotch.  
“He just likes people—oh.”

The guy was staring at Clint, eyes wide and white and fixed on Clint’s face. The longer he stared, the more he shifted from ‘mysterious’ to ‘creepy’.

‘You…You can see me?’

Clint involuntarily stepped backwards, feeling like he’d just swallowed a rock. His gaze shifted over the guy, reading the signs: the creepy lurking in shadows, the way all the passing pedestrians parted around them like a wave, the sinking feeling in his chest…

“Aw, ghost, no,” Clint whined, while Lucky sat on his haunches and raised a paw for the ghost to shake.

 

* * *

 

It turned out that Clint wasn’t all that great at shaking someone off; despite his best efforts, the ghost still managed to track him all the way across Brooklyn back to his apartment. There’d been a moment where he’d thought he’d lost the tail, but when he locked up the apartment door and headed for the kitchen for coffee, there was already someone inside it.

“You can’t drink it, you know.” The ghost froze, hand inches from the coffee pot handle. “In case you’re getting ideas.”

This close, Clint could make out a lot more detail. The ghost was probably a few years younger than Clint, though that wasn’t new since most of them weren’t past 50. Pretty tall, attractive, brunette—Clint’s type. Shame the guy had kicked the bucket.

He wasn’t familiar, at least, which was good in Clint’s book. Made things a lot less awkward.

‘…I guess not.’ The ghost pulled his hand back and tucked it into his jacket, clearly not knowing what to do with his hands. He wasn’t trying to strangle Clint at least, which was an improvement over the last ghost that had followed him home. ‘But it sounds like you know better than me.’

“Well, I’m kinda the expert. Or at least the closest you’ll get around here.” Clint reached past the ghost to the fridge. He’d think better on a full stomach. While Lucky whined at his feet, Clint got a frozen pizza going in the oven, cleaned a sink full of dishes, and cleared a space off at the table, all with a creepy spectator watching his every move.

Really, the guy should just make a move. Clint wasn’t good at taking initiative for stuff like this—that was the rule he’d figured out after all these years. You couldn’t ignore them, but you didn’t have to go out of your way either.

Finally, the awkwardness was too much even for Clint, who was definitely the expert there. He sighed and turned in his chair to face the ghost.

“So, what’s your story?”

With the increased distance between them, Clint could better eyeball the guy’s outfit, trying to pick up on clues on the guy’s identity. The black leather definitely worked on him. The red star on the left shoulder was a nice touch, really popped against the black. The silver arm was weird, but most ghosts had something weird about them. At least he had a face for Clint to appreciate. 

‘Story?’

“You know, your gimmick. Girl you left behind? Buried treasure? Government secret the world needs to know?” The oven dinged and Clint got up to get the pizza out. “The elevator speech to give me a reason to help you.”

‘What makes you think I need you to help me?’ The ghost crossed his arms, showing off some pretty built shoulders. Probably a product of a lot of wasted time at the gym, really made Clint think sometimes.

“Well, you followed me all the way over here, so I assume there was a reason for that.” The guy glowered at him, probably not liking getting called out. Clint started slicing the pizza, picking out the pieces with more pepperoni for Lucky.

‘I followed you because you’re the only person who’s been able to see me for the past two weeks.’ The words came out slowly, heavy enough for Clint to feel the weight. He winced—it was probably just starting to kick in for the guy.

“Well, be glad I came along then. You found me, so how about we get this show on the road so you can get going?”

‘Going where, exactly?’

Clint bit down on a slice, ignoring the crumbs scattering across the kitchen floor. “Well, I dunno what your religion was, but wherever we all go in the hereafter I guess?”

Judging from the way Clint’s pizza exploded, the ghost didn’t take the news of his death all that well.

 

* * *

 

Clint did not have the temperament for working with the dead.

Seriously—while there were exceptions here and there, most of the freshly dead were in shock, unable to understand that they had died, let alone able to explain to him why they had stayed. Or they were in denial, forcing Clint to open doors for them instead of walking straight on through or trying to eat with utensils that dropped through their fingers. 

Clint had been through therapy himself, as mandated through the VA hospital, but that didn’t make him qualified to handle the very angry ghost who was now destroying his kitchen.

“Dude…bro, seriously…” Clint dodged a plastic mug which bounced off the drywall behind him. “Okay, if you don’t stop that in like, five seconds, I’m gonna have to stop you.”

How Clint was going to stop him, he had no idea. Ghosts couldn’t be touched—Clint’s hands would just pass through, leaving him with numb fingers and a vague hangover feeling—even though they certainly could touch Clint. And in Clint’s experience, when they were flipping out like this then they couldn’t really be reasoned with. You just had to wait them out; it was too bad about his dishes, but there was a reason why Clint only bought plastic utensils.

After a few minutes the ghost collapsed to his knees, surrounded by scattered pizza, dishes, and half the contents of Clint’s closet pantry. He gave the ghost a minute or two to take a breather before approaching.

“Alright, no big deal, we all get temper tantrums. Especially when we find out that we’re no longer breathing.” That was a mistake, he realized, when the ghost whipped his head up to stare down Clint, and he moved on. “Let’s start over. Me: Clint Barton, ghost whisperer. You…”

“…Bucky. My name is Bucky.”

Bucky? Must not laugh. “Anything else? Last name, date of birth, mother’s maiden name?”

After a long awkward silence, Clint backtracked.

“Well, that’s a start,” Clint said encouragingly. Not a great one, since that sounded like a nickname and therefore wouldn’t help much with actually identifying the guy. But hey, Clint had lived on this world too long to expect a full birth certificate with social security number and list of facebook friends. He could make this work.

 

* * *

 

Before Bucky made his way into Clint’s life, he’d had a streak of almost two years without any ghost sightings.

 

It had been glorious—without the ghosts, Clint stopped talking into thin air in embarrassingly public places, he managed to hold down a job (bike courier) for longer than three months, and, well, he’d felt like a normal guy for once. Okay, so he was still a former circus freak, and rarely had a conversation with real people outside of ‘here’s your change, sir’, and he watched too much Dog Cops, but at least he wasn’t _that guy_ anymore.

Before that—hoo boy. Clint wasn’t like Barney; he couldn’t turn away when they asked for his help. Even if it was something stupid (one had made Clint enter an eating contest on his behalf, and although he’d won, it put him off pizza for two months). Or even if it was criminal; as long as the ghost left in peace, Clint felt like he’d done something right for once. He wasn’t gonna go to space, or win a Nobel prize—but this, at least, he could do.

 

* * *

 

 

“So how long’ve you been hanging out on this mortal plane?” Clint asked. He was sketching out a table of ‘definite’, ‘maybe’, and ‘who knows’ on some scratch paper while Bucky awkwardly hovered over him. Some ghosts didn’t like this, telling Clint about their former lives, but in Clint’s experience it was the best way to get at whatever was keeping the ghost from moving on.

“Two…maybe three weeks, before you found me.” Bucky had a kind of constipated look, which Clint guessed was his concentrating face.

“Lucky, you mean.”

“What?”

“Lucky. My dog. He’s the one who—never mind,” Clint gave up on that. Splitting hairs, but it wasn’t like Clint had been trying to find ghosts _on purpose_. There was a reason why he avoided hospitals, after all.

“Were you hanging out in that alley the whole time?”

“Pretty much.”

Well, he got the whole not-looking-for-family thing, given that Bucky had apparently forgotten almost everything about his former life judging from the almost empty ‘definite’ column. “You didn’t go looking for other ghosts?”

‘I guess I figured I was the only one.’ Bucky rocked back on his heels. ‘It’s not like anyone told me what the fuck was going on when I woke up.’

Yeah, the afterlife was short on how-to pamphlets, based on Clint’s experiences.

“Well, you gotta look for the signs.” Clint stretched an arm back and snagged another sheet of paper from the printer on the desk behind him. “C’mere.”

He sketched out a rough human body—not exactly the epitome of human art, but whatever. “Here.” He tapped the pencil against the face. “Eyes and mouth. I don’t know if it’s just that only pissed-off jackasses become ghosts, but every one of you guys delivers me a death glare whenever you stop in for kicks. See, there it is,” he waves the pencil at Bucky’s face.

He scowled. “Got anything better than that?”

“Sure. Here,” Clint circled the shoulder. “You guys always end up with some weird symbol, or tattoo, or whatever that is.” He looked pointedly at the red star painted onto Bucky’s left shoulder. “No idea what it means, but it always sticks out to me.”

Bucky ran the fingers of his real hand over the star. He didn’t say anything—if it meant something to him, he wasn’t sharing. Fine, point taken. Clint moved on.

“The way you guys act, too—as far as I can tell, people don’t become ghosts unless they have a reason to stick around. You always end up lurking around whatever’s itchin’ at you, pining away in doorways and whatever. Sad, really.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’ve been following you around for two days now, and your only friend is a dog. If anyone’s sad around here, it’s you.”

Clint shrugged. You’d think he’d be embarrassed, but he’d have ghosts follow him around for much longer and see much worse things. Honestly, he didn’t mind having the company, usually. It only got complicated once the living got involved, which was inevitable.

“Takes one to know one, I guess. Anyway, if you’re like the all the others I’ve met, you’ve got some unfinished business, or a bone to pick, or a boner for someone still alive. You gotta help me out though—is there anything at all? Anything familiar?”

Bucky sighed—which was stupid, since the guy didn’t need to breath. ‘I don’t know…where do you start, when you get a new ghost?’

“It’s not like I have a system.” Well, he kinda did, but that was beside the point. “But knowing how you died would be a good start. You don’t happen to remember being gristly murdered, or getting into a car accident, or…” Clint glanced at the arm. He’d realized what it reminded him of. “Are you a veteran?”

‘How should I know?’ Right, amnesia thing.

“You might’ve had a prosthetic arm.” He nodded at the silver arm. Not that he’d ever seen a real prosthetic arm that looked like that, but it was a start. Clint groaned when he realized what that meant. “Okay, I know somewhere we can start.”

 

* * *

 

Clint wasn't a big fan of hospitals. The feeling was mutual, judging by the weird looks he got from the polo-shirted volunteers hanging around the front steps and the long stare he got from the security guard at the front.

But that probably had more to do with the way he kept replying to Bucky's questions, seemingly talking into thin air to the audience. Luckily, Clint wasn't the easily embarrassed type, so when a nurse startled at his muttered 'yeah, right', he just winked and strolled onward into the lobby.

"Do you have your vet badge, sir?" The front desk lady sounded as bored as she looked. While Clint pulled it out, he subtly (?) pushed Bucky towards the nearby pinboard, which was covered in flyers. The ghost seemed a little distracted, and as they walked towards the elevators he kept glancing back at Clint's wallet.

"You're a vet?" The question trailed off into a low murmur; apparently the guy still thought he had to whisper.

"Is it really that surprising? Of course I had a plan for getting in here." The doors closed behind him, and he gestured at the buttons. "So any idea where we're going? You looked at the flyers, right?"

‘Yeah, but nothing looked right. Was something supposed to jump out at me?’

"Hey, I'm not the one with ghost amnesia." He grinned when he got another death glare. "Seriously, I have no idea how it works. The magic just happens." Clint hit a random number. "Four sounds good, let's try four."

As the elevator rode upwards, Clint had the distinct impression that Bucky was losing faith in his ghost whisperer abilities.

The fourth floor turned out house psychiatry services. At least it looked better than the rest of the hospital, all calm lighting and neutral tones. It even smelled more natural, away from the antiseptic stink in the lobby that was probably leaking in from the med wards.

They found another wall of flyers and Clint casually read a few, letting Bucky do his thing. After a few minutes of boring he glanced over at the ghost, who had that intense stare going, as if he was looking for a secret code or some shit.

A hand clapped down on Clint's shoulder, and he jumped. Probably cleared some air.

"Clint Barton! I thought I recognized you!"

Clint groaned internally. "Hey Dr. Bishop."

Dr. Bishop as a short, bespectacled, and, as always, dressed to the nines. Apparently he hadn't changed much from the last time Clint saw him...two, three years ago?

"We haven't seen you around the VA lately," he gently prodded, looking over Clint's dirty trainers and hoodie. "Still living in Bedstuy? How's Barney doing?"

"Uh...well, I haven't talked to him in a while..." He could tell Bucky was listening in and he tried to hurry it along. "But everything's good. No problems at all."

"Hm." Dr. Bishop looked a little doubtful, then his gaze shifted to something over Clint's shoulder.

"Mr. Wilson! What good timing--this is one of our veterans, Clint Barton. I think he'd like to sit in on one of your groups." Dr. Bishop clapped a hand onto Clint's left shoulder, trapping him in place. 

A young black man, younger than Clint, grinned at him. At least Clint wasn't the most underdressed guy in the place—dude was post-workout, though running clearly hadn’t dampened his spirits.

"Good to hear it; we're always happy to have new members." He held out a hand, and Clint couldn't think of a way not to shake it. "Clint, right?"

"Yeah." Great, more and more people taking an interest in him. Last thing Clint needed was the attention—might as well as be holding up a sign saying ‘crazy guy with ghost hunting delusions over here!’

Next to him, Bucky had stiffened up, gaze roving up and down Wilson. Clint was about to make his excuses and escape when Bucky suddenly elbowed him in the side, sending a cold shock down his spine.

‘I know--knew him, he's--Barton, go with him. _Now._ ” He shoved Clint, propelling him further towards the pair who were back to staring at Clint.

“Uh…tripped. Still clumsy, I guess,” Clint scratched at the back of his head, avoiding eye contact with Dr. Bishop who probably remembered Clint’s ‘accidents’. He was pretty sure the doc had thought he was self-harming at one point, from all the bruises and scratches he got from ghostbusting. Hell, once a ghost had grabbed his steering wheel, sending Clint into four lanes of opposing traffic and a court date for suspected drunk driving.

Good times.

Clint found himself being pulled into Wilson’s wake, grudgingly answering his increasingly personal questions—still living in Bedstuy; from Iowa, actually; no relationship but he wasn’t looking; Dog Cops—while Bucky followed silently. It wasn’t until Wilson stopped to check in with a receptionist that Bucky spoke up.

‘Who’s Barney?,’ Bucky said. When Clint looked back, Bucky has buried his hands deep into his pockets, looking down at the ground—probably nervous.

“What are you talking abo—” Oh. Right, his brother. Like it was his business, anyway.

"What is this, the sharing hour?" Clint whispered back, trying to keep the ‘talking to himself’ undercover. Bucky finally looked back at him, clearly wanting more info, and unfortunately Wilson was still busy with the receptionist.

“He’s my brother,” Clint hurriedly replied.

‘Can he do what you can?’ Clint stared and Bucky waved his hand at himself. Then rolled his eyes when Clint still didn’t get it. ‘Talk to ghosts?’

“Trying to upgrade from me already?” Clint quipped, keeping an eye on Wilson. “Yeah, he can, but he doesn’t.”

‘Why not?’

“Because you guys are ungrateful pains in the butt? Be quiet and let me do my thing.”

Bucky frowned at that, but luckily Wilson picked up the pace again, giving Clint an excuse to clam up. 

Why Bucky would want to know more about Barney, Clint had no idea. Barney was just as much of a Barton as Clint; stubborn, leap without looking, criminal record to prove it. The only difference was that Barney wasn’t stupid enough to pay attention to dead people.

When they finally reached their destination, a brightly lit conference room, Clint was dismayed to be greeted by a whole crowd, armed with coffee cups and danishes. Like it was a fucking AA meeting or something—Clint would have bolted, except Wilson grabbed his elbow and pulled him in, guiding him to one of the vacant wooden chairs in the prearranged circle. He couldn’t see Bucky but assumed he was hovering behind him—did ghosts get tired from standing all the time?

  
At least there wasn’t much going on at front—Wilson had suddenly become busy with his phone, which was vibrating every other second under an onslaught of receiving texts. He tapped away furiously, blissfully ignorant of the very intense stare both Clint and Bucky were leveling at him, up until he straightened and addressed the group.When they finally reached their destination, a brightly lit conference room, Clint was dismayed to be greeted by a whole crowd, armed with coffee cups and danishes. Like it was a fucking AA meeting or something—Clint would have bolted, except Wilson grabbed his elbow and pulled him in, guiding him to one of the vacant wooden chairs in the prearranged circle. He couldn’t see Bucky but assumed he was hovering behind him—did ghosts get tired from standing all the time?

“All right, everyone—today’s going to be an interactive session, which Carol here,” He gestured a middle-aged blonde woman forward, “will be leading. I’ll be back by the end, so I expect all of you to behave.”

Wilson grinned and strolled out of the room, pulling his phone out again. At a nudge from Bucky, Clint used the rise in chatter from the patients as cover to slip out and follow him discreetly.

Well, sort of. Immediately he almost tripped over a janitor’s bucket that had been left next to the doorway. Trying to stay hidden, Clint stumbled into the adjacent closet and almost fell against the paneled cabinets inside, sending a shower of paint can lids and rags to the floor.

‘Can’t you do anything right?’ Bucky grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back out of the closet, a feat that probably would have scared off any gawking spectators. ‘He’s getting away!’

“Just so you know—” Clint scrambled to his feet and took off down the hallway, in the general direction of where Wilson had gone. “—next time you use bad touch on me, I _will_ turn around and go home!”

Bucky easily kept up, probably using ghost powers. It helped that he passed right through anyone who got in his way. ‘I know where you live, dumbass.’ He paused and looked around. ‘Where’d he go?’

Good question. Clint thought they’d probably lost him when he’d into the emergency stairwell (Clint had temporarily locked himself in, up until Bucky had figured out how to turn the handle). They were now on the 10th floor, some kind of admin, and it was only dumb luck that let Clint spot the quick shadow out of an adjacent window.

“What the fuck?” Clint walked up to the window and leaned his palms against the safety glass, trying to get a better luck. The sun was in his eyes from this angle, but he could see a black speck darting across the sky, like some kind of Roswell-ufo-ET shit. 

It looked very familiar.

Bucky reached his shoulder and peered through, easily spotting where Wilson had gone. He frowned, lines creasing through his forehead, but before he could speak, Clint beat him to it.

“Bucky—when the hell were you going to tell me that you’re friends with an Avenger?”

 

* * *

 

 

‘For the last fucking time, I don’t know the freaking Avengers!’

Bucky had been repeating that all the way back to Clint’s apartment. He’d been so distracted that he’d forgotten to get mad at Clint for leaving the group therapy session early in the first place. Not that Clint was eager to remind him—he had no interest in letting a bunch of docs get a good look at him and his ghost-hunter abilities.

“That’s what you say now, but you literally _just admitted_ that you knew the guy. And I’m telling you,” Finally, Clint found what he was looking for in the pile of old magazines and newspapers he had stacked up on his kitchen table. He pulled out the newspaper and slapped it open, right under Bucky’s nose. There, a full-page spread—and top right was Falcon.

He grinned. “You know an Avenger.”

Bucky stared silently at the magazine. Not the dramatic reaction or weeping gratitude Clint had been hoping for—hell, they’d gone from complete amnesia to a valid clue about the guy’s past.

Well, unless he’d been friends with Wilson and hadn’t known about his double identity. In which case, Clint’s bad.

“C’mon man, whattya think? Any bells ringing?” The silence was beginning to unnerve him, actually. Clint leaned against the countertop behind him and crossed his arms, determined to wait the ghost out—but damn, Bucky sure did seem enthralled with that photograph. There were more, too—it wasn’t hard to find press photos of the Avengers, along with the thousands of youtube videos of them in-action. Hell, Clint had seen them live a few times—usually when there were giant spiders in Central Park or aliens taking over the subway.

Slowly, Bucky reached out, with the metal hand. He hesitated, then tapped against the glossy face of a completely different Avenger.

‘I knew him.’

“Who?” Clint looked. “Captain America? Really?”

He clenched his fist, ripping the page. “He’s—he’s Steve. I knew him.”

Clint paused. It smelled like there were more memories coming back. This happened a lot with ghosts—one memory triggered two more, which set up a little flurry of more and more, coming together into a person. Beautiful to see in action, even better if it meant that Clint would get to actually _meet_ Steve Rogers.

“Sweet. We’re a few subway stops from Stark Tower,” Now technically the Avengers tower, but who called it that? “We can go right now.”

Problem solved. They’d go to the tower, Clint would talk his way in (maybe play up wanting to meet with Wilson? Brilliant), he’d ask about any recent missing persons/dead guys, he’d get the whole portfolio on this guy, and they’d figure out what was keeping him on this mortal plane. Boom, done in one day. Fastest Clint had ever busted a ghost.

Bucky stood up, sending the chair he was sitting on to clatter to the ground.

‘No.’

“Okay then…wait, what?” Clint stood up too, if only because it was a little intimidating to have the ghost standing over him. “Why not? Obviously this is the next step.” Hm. “Wait, are you just worried they’re not gonna believe us? Those guys have a Norse god and a rage monster on their team, I’m sure they’ve seen crazier things.”

‘I don’t…’ Bucky groaned and rubbed his hand, the real one, over his head. ‘I can’t go to the Tower.’

“Well, then we’re not gonna move forward then.” Clint sat back down and crossed his arms. He was starting to get pissed—this was the first real lead they’d had since they’d started, and Bucky just wanted to give up? He didn’t get it. “I told you I’d help you, and I did. But I need for you to step up to the plate here.”

‘I know.’ Bucky looked miserable. ‘But…there’s something wrong. I need to think.'

Clint sighed. One more day with the ghost then. “Fine. But I’m picking what’s on Netflix.”

He’d expected Bucky to argue (especially after he’d made Clint watch some boring WWII documentary the night before), but somehow it was more annoying when the ghost just walked away.

 

* * *

 

 

Clint spent the next two days blissfully ghost-free. He went to work, got takeout, took Lucky on a walk through the park (avoiding the alleyway where Bucky had been hiding); all nice and normal. Clint hadn’t even been feeling in suspense—Bucky struck him a little as the type of ghost who’d just wander off again, off to figure things out on his own.

Of course, instead of doing Clint a favor and fucking off to figure out his own problems, he instead chose to suddenly reappear in the middle of his kitchen while he was flipping pancakes.

“Aw.” Lucky jogged over and cleaned the half-done pancake off the floor, then sat back on his haunches and wagged his tail for more. “Well, I hope you’re going to replace those.”

Bucky stared at him, then crossed his arms. ‘I don’t give a shit about your pancakes, Barton. I came here because I figured out what I need to do.’

“Well, maybe I don’t give a shit about the things that you want.” Clint’s frying pan began to hover, threatening the remaining batter, and Clint raised his hands in apology. “Joking, joking. Hey, you’re getting pretty good at that.”

Bucky frowned, looking unsure. ‘When I’m here. I tried to do that, moving things, outside of your apartment, but it didn’t work.’

“Oh! Yeah, it doesn’t work like that.” Clint flipped the remainders. “Something something astral energy,  I dunno. But most of the ghosts I meet can’t do their tricks to anyone except me.”

‘Really?’

“Yeah. Shame, too, since if you could do that all the time then you probably wouldn’t need my help. So spill—what’s the story?”

Clint was genuinely curious. Not that he didn’t get interested in the lives of other ghosts—everyone had a story and all. But this guy was clearly rolling with the Avengers; plenty interesting in Clint’s book.

‘I remembered something—something involving Steve Rogers. Something that I was supposed to do before I died.’

Well, that sounded promising. “Something with Captain America, huh? Like a secret message? A map to the last copy of the Declaration of Independence?” He grinned, but Bucky wasn’t going for it. “C’mon, spill.’

Bucky sighed. ‘I can’t tell you what it is.’

All the suspense drained away. Clint gaped at the ghost. “Are you kidding me?” He squinted. “It’s not just that you forgot what it is, right?”

Bucky whacked him in the shoulder. Clint rolled with it and served out pancakes, putting aside a plate for Lucky.

“Fine, fine, it’s a big secret, the nation would be in danger if anyone besides the Avengers and their ghost buddy knew.” Clint sat down heavily and started dumping syrup on the pancakes. “Well, what can you tell me?”

‘Captain America needs to have something. I—someone was supposed to find it, and give it to him, but things went wrong. Now it’s stuck, and if Steve doesn’t get it then things are going to go wrong.’

“Huh.” There were a lot of ‘its’ and ‘things’ in there. He wasn’t sure if that was just Bucky trying to keep certain details private, or if he honestly didn’t remember. “Well, sounds important.”

‘It is. It has to be done.’ Bucky sounded sure of that. ‘He was my best friend, and I owe it to him.’

“Well, what do you need me to do?” Obviously, Bucky wouldn’t be telling him all this if he didn’t need Clint in the picture.

‘Before I tell you, do you promise that you’ll help me?’

Man, that didn’t sound good. “How ‘bout you tell me first, then I’ll promise?”

‘That’s not going to work.’ Bucky got closer, close enough for Clint to see the crazy look in his eye. ‘I need your word.’

“You know that I don’t really have any obligation to help you, right? I didn’t sign a contract or sell my soul or anything.” Really, it seemed like Bucky was trying to take advantage of his good Samaritan nature. Shame.

‘Just—just promise me, okay? You told me that you help ghosts for some reason. Whatever that reason is…I need you to do this.’

Damn, hitting him low. Clint frowned, ignoring the way his pancakes were getting old. Why he helped ghosts…well, he wasn’t going to share that. But he was starting to get that itchy feeling of guilt in his chest, the one that Clint knew would only get the worse the longer he ignored the ghosts.

Well, at least things were finally starting to sound good. “All right, I promise. I’ll help you with whatever crazy mission you have to do. Now spill: what do I have to do?”

Bucky’s eyes searched his face, looking for something—like integrity, like a guarantee Clint would keep his word, whatever it was worth. Apparently he found what he was looking for, because he finally gave in.

‘I need for you to break into a Hydra base and steal a flash drive.’

It took Clint a few minutes to process that. All of the individual words made sense, but put together, it sounded like possibly the worst idea he’d ever heard.

“Break into a Hydra base.” Like the ancient Nazis, the kind Captain America had fought back in WWII. “Steal a flash drive.”

‘Then return it to the Avengers.’

The ‘no way’ was literally on the tip of his tongue when he remembered that he’d promised. Choking it down, he turned back to his plate of pancakes. They didn’t look as appetizing as they did a minute ago.

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, the scheme wasn’t as hair-brained as Clint had first pictured.

“So you’re sure that it’s here?” Clint pointed at the map, specifically at the coordinates where he knew an abandoned Best Buy had once stood. The building was empty now, lot chained off and unmaintained for at least five years. At least two hours outside the city, but Clint had driven past that area plenty of times back when he’d had a motorcycle. The place was a dump, hardly the prime location for an evil ancient organization in his opinion.

“I’m sure.” Bucky leaned back, looking exhausted. They’d spent all day and half the night going over it. Clint still wasn’t sure how much he could trust the info Bucky was giving him—ghosts had really, really bad memories. They got confused all the time—and this time, it sounded like Clint could get into real trouble.

Bucky had argued that he’d be with Clint the whole time, guiding him towards the target, but the way Clint saw it, Bucky had no reason to be afraid of bad guys with guns. He’d already died once, after all.

‘Let’s go over this one more time.’ Bucky slid the map, which he’d made Clint buy from a corner store, over to him. ‘We leave tomorrow at 20:00 hours. The last subway train leaves at 20:30, and we take that until about ten miles short.’

“Uh-huh.”

‘It’s mostly abandoned lots after that, so going on foot would be ideal—low profile, and quiet.’

Clint hadn’t like that part of the plan, but Bucky had beat him down on that. “Okay.”

‘There’s a gray side door with a numeric lock beneath the left-hand door frame. And the code?’

“Uh…” Was that the 93072? Or the 95721? There were at least three Bucky had made him memorize.

Bucky scowled and ripped the map away from him. ‘Could you fucking pay attention? This is serious—if you screw up and I’m not there to help, then Steve is going to get hurt!’

“Sorry, but I’m still a little fixated on all the little ways that _I’m_ probably going to get hurt.” Or even killed—honestly, the longer they’d talked, the more misgivings Clint was having. The whole idea was stupid, especially when there was a better and obvious solution. “Can you tell me again why we can’t just call in the Avengers? This spy stuff…I dunno, sounds like it’s right up their alley.”

‘Because—because we can’t, alright?’

“Yeah, that’s a _great_ answer. Real illuminating.” Clint dodged when Bucky threw the map at him.

“Fine, fine we’ll do this ourselves. Totally won’t end in my fiery death at the hands of Nazis. Good plan.”

Bucky was obviously hiding something—if this was so important, if Captain America’s life was in danger, then there was no reason _not_ to involve the Avengers. Hell, Clint was considering sneakily letting them know—somehow—what the deal was. Seriously, could you just call up Tony Stark? Was there an Avengers hotline you could call, or some kind of bat signal? What would their symbol even be?

‘Look,’ Bucky said, cutting Clint’s train of thought off. ‘We can make this work. You’re not a regular civilian; you have military training, and you’ve handled weapons before.” His gaze slid over to Clint’s ‘weapon’. ‘Not an ideal one, but it’ll work. We can do this.’

Still, Clint was doubtful. “But are you sure about this? That these are the right guys? That this is the right thing? What if someone gets hurt?”  Particularly, what if Clint got hurt? He’d met a lot of ghosts, but he didn’t want to become one.

‘I won’t let that happen.’ Bucky seemed determined. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I wasn’t sure.’

Well…that was flattering, he guessed. But still. “You know I’m not cut out for this, right? The whole ghost-whispering biz usually boils down to sending out letters and digging up buried safes, not busting into bad-guy military bases and stealing top-secret stuff. I’m not an Avenger.”

Bucky swallowed. Why ghosts did that, Clint didn’t know.

‘You’re going to have to act like one.’

 

* * *

 

 

Surprisingly, part 1 of the plan went...well, swimmingly was the word.

Mainly because Bucky made him swim. 

'Wading through a two foot stream is not in any way, shape, or form,  _swimming_.'

"It is when that stream is sewage--which, by the way, I don't remember signing up for." Clint had wasted five minutes of time scraping his boots off against some of the rebar they had lying around the place, ignoring the increasingly annoying ghost at his side. "And are you sure this is the right place? It looks like an honest to God dump."

That was definitely true--if this was a Hydra base then they really had to up their standards. He'd seen this building from a distance before and it hadn't improved up close. Someone had tried to demolish it a few years back but gave up halfway through, probably realizing that the land was worthless--no one wanted to live or work this far out from the city or suburbs.

'Take this seriously, Barton. That's just a façade to keep out squatters.' Bucky had prowled ahead, scoping out some kind of hidden entry point that he'd magically remembered halfway through their brainstorming yesterday. Too bad he didn't remember where he'd kept any stashes of guns or grenades or...well, whatever might be useful. Seriously, someone who knew about secret Hydra bases should have some hidden weapons, right?

Bucky gestured him over. Sure enough, hidden against the crumbling wall was a very modern-looking steel door, free of the concrete dust that coated the rest of the place. Clint shifted uneasily and looked around; it was one thing to be told you'd be breaking into a secret base for Nazis, another to  _know_  it.

Inside things didn't look much better. The tunnel Clint had broken into was much larger than they'd anticipates, and his footsteps echoed way too loudly, probably giving away his position. At Bucky's instruction he shifted to the edge of the tunnel, which helped muffle his footsteps a little and keep his shadow against the wall. On the plus side, all the Hydra goons were apparently out to lunch.

Clint had never thought he'd be hanging out in a dank, poorly lit tunnel with a ghost of a probable-Avenger.

'About a hundred yards down there'll be another door on the righthand side,' Bucky whispered. Clint had to resist the urge to tell him whispering was pointless, or to respond. They'd agreed on radio silence on Clint's part; Bucky would do all the talking. 'That'll take us to a second door ten yards behind it--you remember that code?'

Clint nodded.

'I'll scout ahead and check for Hydra agents, but it should be clear.' How Bucky knew that, Clint wasn't totally sure. The guy wasn't very forthcoming. 'Then we need to find our way down to the basement labs. That's where the flash drive is.'

Clint hadn't known that even super-secret spy agencies still used flash drives. Bucky had seemed sure though, so Clint had gone along with it. Stealing a flash drive sounded a lot easier than hacking into a server or a cloud or whatever the cool kids used these days.

Doors 2 and 3 went the same way as the first; Bucky's memory for codes was good. Clint paused behind the third door, looking around at the equally miserable-looking concrete walls illuminated by a buzzing electric light while Bucky slipped ahead. Other than his own breathing, the place was completely silent. That didn't help calm Clint's nerves--literally any noise at all, from drips of water, his own shoes squeaking, the shift of his bow inside his backpack, made him jump.

'Let's go.'

Or any poorly-timed instructions from a ghost. Clint glared at him but followed, trying to keep his footsteps quiet.

They headed down a staircase to a probable-basement (hard to tell since there weren't any windows), Clint's heart pounding all the while. If Bucky was right, the flashdrive should be hidden in a safe somewhere on this level. It seemed too easy, though; if this flashdrive was really all that important, it shouldn't be so easy for a civilian to bust in. Apparently Bucky felt the same way, since he gestured for Clint to stay put in the stairwell while he went through the tight maze of walls and locked doors.

Bucky was good at this. Clint had watched the way he walked, the things he looked for. He really came off as someone trained in scoping out enemy territory and breaking into secure facilities. Clint remembered his basic grunt training from the army, but this was different--and way above his level. He just had to trust that Bucky knew what he was doing.

Still, he thought to himself as he waited, minutes crawling by. Why didn't Bucky want to bring in the Avengers? He obviously cared quite a bit for Captain America, had probably known him in life, so why not trust him to do this? Maybe Clint had the advantage in that he could hear Bucky, but that didn't mean that Clint himself had to go down here and risk his life on this, despite how cool the whole thing was.

Lost in thought, Clint almost missed the slight push of air as someone swung at his back.

Immediately Clint dropped to the floor, landing hard on the cement while something solid swung over him. He kicked out blindly, and his left boot his a kneecap, sending his attacker to the floor. No time to check for a gun--Clint threw himself on the guy, trying to neutralize his arms and keep him from drawing a weapon. While they grappled, his pulse hammered away in his ears--the guy was strong, stronger than Clint, and any second he was going to be thrown off and--

'Clint!' Suddenly Bucky was there, trying to grab the guy and pull him away; but his hands just kept passing through his tack vest, unable to make solid contact when he was this distracted. The guy must have felt something, though, since he paused, giving Clint the split second edge to grab his head and slam it against the ground.

"Jesus," Clint said after a minute of frantically sucking in air. The adrenaline rush slowly wore off as he took in details: all black uniform, armed, mask covering his face. He didn't think he'd killed the guy, but...

'Definitely Hydra.' Bucky gestured at a symbol over the man's heart. It looked like...a snake. With too many tails.

"Definitely Hydra," Clint repeated mockingly. "What happened to the whole 'watching my back' part of the plan?"

'I was busy.' He gestured, and over his shoulder Clint saw two more bodies, dressed in the same uniform and piled up in one of the doorways further into the gloom.

"Huh. Well...good job, then." How Bucky had managed to knock out those two but be completely useless in helping Clint, he had no idea. "Did you find the flash drive by any chance?"

'Not yet, but we have to hurry. I'm pretty sure one of those guys pulled the--'

Immediately a red light flashed through the whole level, accompanied by a blaring siren.

'Move!' Bucky shoved at him and Clint ran blindly into the maze of hallways. Bucky ran ahead of him and Clint followed, hoping to hell that the ghost knew where he was going. One turn, then another--dodge to the side when four uniformed guys appeared and ran past Clint unknowingly when he was hidden in an adjacent room. They'd clearly set off whatever defense system the base had, which meant Clint was screwed.

'Here!' Bucky passed through a thicker door, leaving Clint to fumble with the handle. It was locked--but then Bucky grabbed it with his silver arm and tore the lock right off, letting the door swing open unaided.

Damn, Clint thought. He's getting stronger.

Through it was another stairwell to a deeper level, one that was illuminated by only by a few incandescent lights. The open room they found was almost empty, except for a computer in the very center.

And locked into that computer was a flash drive.

'Grab it and go!' Bucky shouted, sounding weird and filmy. Probably stressed his ghost powers too much.

"How do we know it's the right...."

'It's the right one--I'm sure of it.' Clint grabbed it and tucked it into his backpack--he wasn't about to argue.

A rush of footsteps made Clint turn around. The stairwell into the room, the only entrance, was filling with more and more of the uniformed guards, most of whom were raising guns toward Clint.

"Uh..." A chorus of clicks echoed through the room as they all took the safety off. "Any ideas, Bucky?"

There was a long moment of silence where it seemed like no one knew what to do next. Like some kind of Mexican standoff, except that Clint had no cards to play, no secret weapon, no ace in the hole. Nothing except Bucky, who looked just as helpless at Clint's side as he did in the alleyway.

For the first time, Clint thought that he was going to die.

He could see Bucky rapidly fading out. The way he looked at him…he’d only seen a ghost look at him like that once before. The first time and, apparently, the last.

A sudden rattle filled the room, escalating in intensity while everyone whipped around except Clint, who'd been shoved to the dirty floor by Bucky. Under the ghost's weight he struggled to see what was going on, or to even catch a breath--Bucky seemed intent on crushing the life out of him before the Hydra goons could beat him to it. A moment later and the weight was snatched off, replaced by shadowy figures hovering over him, too hazy for Clint to make out through his blurred vision.

There was more noise in the background, human voices punctuated by gunfire, but Clint's vision finally came back enough for him to see the SHIELD insignia on each of the newcomers' shoulders.

 

* * *

 

 

If Clint was going to rate secret military bases, SHIELD's would be a 9/10 (versus Hydra which was barely a four).

Clean facilities, central location in the city (underground, of course), less menacing goons although Clint had noticed that everyone around him was packing. They'd even given him a sandwich, after the third round of interrogations over why he'd been where he was. 

Bucky had disappeared, so Clint had kept silent, afraid of what he might give away.

He'd finally been left alone in some generic office, complete with mellow eggshell-white walls and ergonomic furniture. Much better than the steel chairs and handcuffs he'd expect from a secret organization; but he'd been locked in, hence the 9/10.

At least the alone time gave Clint a chance to come up with a story. He couldn't confess to knowing that the base was Hydra; that screamed that he was either a bad guy or knew a little too much about them. His only hope for getting out of there without a chip in his brain was to plead ignorance--just some fuck-up tourist who'd wandered where he shouldn't've.

He really wished Bucky would show up.

About two hours after the sandwich the door handle turned with the rattle of keys and a tall, hard-edged woman walked in. She wore a tactical jumpsuit, giving her some kind of dominatrix look. 

The outfit actually reminded him a little of Bucky's. While he stared, hopefully in a non-ogling way, she sat across the table form him and carefully placed a manila folder on the surface.

"Clinton Francis Barton." She hummed as she looked over him. "My name is Agent Hill, and I am one of the assistant directors of SHIELD."

They were bringing out the big guns, then--well, maybe. Like Clint knew what the SHIELD hierarchy was.

"Pleased to meet you--I'd introduce myself, but clearly you already know more about me." He leaned back, faking casual and irritated. "So when am I getting out of here? I have rights, you know."

Hill smoothly ignored that.

"Why did you break into the facility?" She flipped open the manila folder and Clint was shocked to realize that it was about him. It even had pictures--his mugshot from his teenage days, military ID, driver's license. Shit.

"I..." He thought frantically. "I'm a collector. I like to go through old places, find stuff to sell."

It wasn't entirely implausible, though judging from the way her eyebrow twitched, it wasn't airtight. Still, Clint was good at thinking on his feet--you had to be for ghost-busting.

"And whaddya know, I found something." He tried for something more laidback, more smug. Like those conspiracy guys who'd finally dug up something good on the government. "Wasn't even that hard to get in."

"Don't flatter yourself," Hill said cuttingly. "This was a low priority base with a minimal guard rotation. Anything more high-level and you would have been killed."

Ouch. To be fair, he had had help, not that he'd seen Bucky for the past few hours. Stupid ghost bailed on him once SHIELD showed up.

"Woulda coulda shoulda, I'm just fine." Not really, but he didn't want to get pulled into their medical team, just in case they had extra gadgets for detecting weird abilities. They probably did.

Then Captain America walked into the room.

Immediately Hill stood up and approached him, leaving Clint to gawp from the next table over. He'd expected the Avenger to look...smaller, he guessed, the way celebrities were never quite as glamorous in real life. But if anything, the guy looked better than Clint had imagined, less like the movie-poster version of the captain Clint had grown up with but somehow more like the way he should be.

He looked like everything Clint wasn't.

Hill left the room, leaving Clint alone with the captain. Clint clamped his mouth shut while the avenger took a seat, hoping that nothing dumb would come out. After a moment of silence, the captain started.

“I imagine that you must have some questions.”

“Uh…” Well, yeah, but Clint wasn’t sure which ones he could ask without giving something away. It was becoming clear, very quickly, that he was in over his head. It was one thing to meet some generic SHIELD agents, who were just the equivalents of army grunts for all Clint knew, but for an actual Avenger to be involved…“You’re Captain America?”

Very smooth.

“I am,” he said smoothly. “And you found something very important.”

He held out one of his gloved hands and uncurled his fist. Inside was the flash drive.

"Do you know what this contains?" He turned it over in his hands; despite how flimsy that piece of plastic looked, he used both hands to carry it. As if it was far more important than anyone had thought.

"Uh...no. I just…it was just there." That was an honest answer, at least. He didn’t want to lie.

"Neither do I. We have people working on finding out, but until that happens, the only good information I have is you." That statement was punctuated by a firm look from the captain that kept Clint plastered to his chair.

"I don't know how you found out about this flash drive. And to be frank, I don't believe your story." His chest clenched up; the captain had seen right through him. "Whatever it is that you're hiding, there's a lot more going on here than you seem to realize."

Clint really, really wished that Bucky was here. He'd know what to say to throw off the captain, to get Clint off their radar. 

"The last time I saw this flash drive, I almost died." His voice was soft, quiet. "Someone tried to kill me for it, and they didn't care about collateral damage."

Which meant that maybe someone else had gotten hurt. Clint swallowed hard to keep himself from spilling everything out. But if people were hurt, and Clint’s information could help…

Goddamnit, Bucky. He had to talk to him—figure out what was going on, before getting the Avengers going on.

"A teammate of mine acquired it before she went underground." Black Widow? "And she entrusted it to me. I don't know yet what this contains, but I would like to know how it got to that base."

"I..." Honestly, Clint couldn't help him there. Bucky had told him the 'wheres' and 'whens', but all the other details were sorely lacking. "I'm really sorry. But I have no idea."

The captain looked at him for a long time. It made Clint wonder what he saw--hapless civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or, more likely, someone with a secret, too cowardly to give it up even when there was something important at stake?

Clint had never wanted to tell someone his secret so badly.

Finally, the captain looked away, back at the flash drive. "We'll probably find out in the next few days." The 'one way or another' went unspoken. "Until then, you'll be allowed off this facility."

"Really? You're not going to lock me up?"

"No," Though there was a little regret to his tone. "SHIELD will be monitoring your apartment in case of any suspicious activity, but you're free to go."

"Uh...great." Clint stood, then immediately felt awkward when the captain remained sitting. It was starting to get obvious that the captain didn't really want him to leave, but Clint wasn't sure why. "If you think it's a good idea...?"

The captain looked at him again. "You need to be careful. The assassin who stole the flash drive from me may target you, and he is very good at what he does. I trust that SHIELD will keep an eye on you, but they would also like to capture this man, and they're not above using you as bait."

A ribbon of cold fear went down his chest. His thoughts immediately went to his apartment--open, vulnerable. Jesus, there wasn't even a lock to the lobby door.

"If you see anything suspicious, especially anyone with a metal arm, then don't hesitate to call SHIELD. Or me." With that, the captain stood and left the room, leaving Clint alone, mind racing with what he'd just heard.

 

* * *

 

 

_Shit shit shit_

The door into Clint's apartment swung open when he slammed into it and bounced against the wall behind it. He didn't notice; too busy looking around the place, the kitchen, the bedroom, even the fire escape.

The apartment was empty.

"Where are you?" Clint demanded, standing in the empty kitchen. There was a moment of silence, then Lucky stirred from his bed in the living room. While Clint sucked down deep breaths, trying to calm himself down after his three mile dash back to his apartment, Lucky approached and leaned against his leg.

"Hey, boy..." Willing himself calm, he gently stroked the dog's head. "Have you seen..."

_SHIELD will be monitoring your apartment in case of any suspicious activity._

Clint slowly looked around, taking in everything with new eyes. Had the SHIELD guys had time to sneak in hidden cameras or microphones? Nothing looked disturbed, but since his place was a mess it was completely impossibly to tell. For all he knew there was a whole team of agents watching his every move, probably already wondering why he was talking to himself.

'You're not under surveillance.' Came from behind him. Clint whipped around, and there was Bucky, standing directly behind him 

"Well there you are," Clint started slowly. He wanted to yell, kick the ghost out, but he had to know what the ghost knew. "Where have you been? 

Bucky dodged the question. 'What happened to the flash drive?' He demanded.

Would it matter if Bucky knew that SHIELD had it, that he'd accomplished his mission? What if the damn thing was...was...some kind of bomb, designed to kill Captain America? Okay, that was stupid, but what had Clint helped him do?

"Why don't you tell me what's really going on." Clint said.

Bucky paused. He could tell that the ghost knew something was up, but wasn't sure how to approach him. Bucky uneasily shifted backwards, away from Clint.

'I don't know what you mean.'

"Oh please. Refusing to go to the Avengers? Disappearing when SHIELD showed up?" It was so obvious in hindsight. He wanted to kick himself. "You work for Hydra."

Bucky swallowed. Nothing to say. Didn't even try to deny it.

"Oh my god," Clint almost laughed. "It is true. He--your  _friend_ , the captain, he was right. You're not an Avenger at all--you're some kind of freaking assassin."

And Clint had been helping him. Just blindly went along with that stupid plan, delivering a Trojan horse into SHIELD--god, he had to warn them, had to tell them... 

But they wouldn't believe him.

It's okay, Clint told himself. He started pacing a little, ignoring the way Bucky tracked his every move. The ghost wouldn't be able to do anything more--Clint wouldn't let him. No one else could hear Bucky speak; without Clint's help, Bucky couldn't do a thing.

Except Clint--god, he could do something to Clint. He could  _kill_ Clint; plenty of other ghosts had tried before, but he'd never been haunted by a professional. Jesus, there wasn't even anywhere to hide. It was like a bad horror movie.

Bucky picked up on Clint's increasing panic and raised his hands. 'Look, just--listen to me. Okay? Let me explain.'

"Explain?! What, that you're some kind of secret Hydra assassin that almost killed off Captain America? And now you have amnesia?" Screw the horror movie, this was a bad drama. Starring Clint Barton, incompetent ghost whisperer.

‘I don’t know, okay?!’

“Don’t know what?”

Anything!’ Bucky took a deep breath and closed eyes. ‘I remember…’ His voice dropped to a whisper, one that made Clint strain to listen.

‘I remember stealing dimes out of fountains with Steve,’ He said. ‘I remember his face in the scope of a rifle. Carrying him to his ma after getting his ass kicked. Crushing his throat with _this_.” The silver arm curled into a fist.  ‘All of these memories—it doesn’t make any sense, but they’re all _there_ , and I can’t figure out which version is real. The only thing I can do is what’s right.’

Clint stared. He’d never seen a ghost act like that before—usually the memories became clearer, forming a narrative, a person, as the ghost aged. Nothing like this. “And the flash drive?”

‘That’s the most recent thing I can remember. There was…there was some reason that it was important. I remember stealing it from Steve, and taking it to that place.’

Clint remembered what Captain America had said. He wondered if Bucky remembered trying to kill him.

“It’s…” God, he was so stupid. He had no way of knowing if Bucky was telling the truth…but Clint liked to think that he could read people, and he didn’t think Bucky was lying. “SHIELD has the flash drive. So you don’t have to worry about it.”

Bucky breathed out a sigh of relief. His shoulders slumped a little, making him seem smaller. ‘Okay. That’s good.’

God, Clint couldn’t deal with this anymore. Suddenly he was sick of seeing Bucky, of being haunted by him. “Now get out.”

Bucky’s head snapped up. ‘What?’

“You heard me.” His voice was trembling, he knew, but words had power with ghosts. And he was still so, so angry with Bucky, and he could feel it in every word he spoke. “I helped you, just like I promised. Now we’re done.”

‘But I…’ He hadn’t figured out the memories, or what he was to Captain America, or found his lost love—whatever. Clint didn’t like this little brush with the Avengers, and once he got rid of the ghost, there’d be no need for a repeat. With that, it felt like he’d made a decision.

“I told you to _leave_.”

Bucky staggered back. Behind him, Clint could hear Lucky whining, and he closed his eyes. A moment later, he opened them to an empty room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next ghost-free week was probably one of the most relaxing he’d ever had.

Took on a few extra jobs, which let him get caught up on his rent. Even managed to set something aside—he’d always sucked at the whole ‘save 10% of your money’ thing, but Clint checked his online savings account that week and felt a little hum of pride when he saw that the account had hit four digits. Not too shabby for ex-carnie white trash.

If it all felt a little…hum-drum…well, that was just temporary. That feeling would go away once a little more time passed, once he found a new ghost to help.

Still, Clint found himself constantly looking over his shoulder. At first, he told himself that he was looking for Hydra agents, or even SHIELD. The former who might want revenge, the latter who might have more questions for him. It was hard to say, but he thought that it was SHIELD that worried him more. There’d been people before who’d asked questions about him. That was a side-effect of helping ghosts—at first people were grateful when Clint delivered long-lost items or sent secret messages, but eventually people began to wonder.

That was part of why Clint had trouble sticking to a long-term job, or staying in a permanent relationship. Hell, hanging out with Bucky had probably been the longest relationship he’d been in since…well, that was a depressing thought.

But then again, maybe he was just deflecting. Maybe it was his own fault that he couldn’t commit to anything. Barney was the same way, drifting in and out of Clint’s life, moving place to place who knew where. It could be a family thing, the Barton inheritance. Hell, helping out ghosts was probably the one constant in Clint’s life, up until the day he would become one. And he was sure he would; he had too many regrets tying him down, too many people he’d disappointed.

By the end of the second ghost-free week, Clint realized that it wasn’t Hydra or SHIELD he was looking out for (although he was still a little worried about that). No, it was Bucky who he kept almost-seeing in his peripheral vision, who his internal radar kept pinging for. He actually missed the guy, embarrassingly enough. Even though Bucky had spent most of his time breaking Clint’s stuff, making fun of him, practically getting him killed…well, that was probably the most enjoyable week Clint had had in a while. It had been fun to pretend to be an Avenger, kinda like a kid pretending to be an astronaut. Maybe Clint was only a bike courier/dishwasher/handyman in his day job, but he had a secret identity as the ghost whisperer, and with the help of Bucky the armless ghost, he’d save the day from Hydra and assist Captain America in his mission and....

Okay, it was a dumb idea. But still a nice one, and the longer he went without seeing Bucky, the more he wanted to know how the story was supposed to end.

 

* * *

 

 

On the third week, Clint was contacted by SHIELD.

In possibly the creepiest way possible, Clint thought, watching as the letter slowly incinerated itself exactly ten seconds after Clint had opened it. Very old-school spy tactic, really, like a James Bond movie. The gist of it was that he was no longer under surveillance, which of course made Clint think that he probably _was_ still being watched, just not officially anymore.

Probably for the best. Clint didn’t really trust Bucky’s judgement that his place wasn’t under surveillance. He was starting to become more self-conscious in his own home, wondering what all the agents watching him must think of a guy in his 30’s spending every night at home watching TV with his dog. He was probably the most boring target they’d ever had. Throwing in a grouchy poltergeist would have made things more interesting for them, at least.

But Bucky was still gone, having been AWOL for almost three weeks. He tried not to think about it too much. Ghost always left; off to the greater plane of existence or what have you. Clint didn’t actually know, but he’d assumed that was the deal: you solved their problem, and they could move on.

Bucky’s problems clearly hadn’t been fixed; who knew what memories the guy was wading through now. There had been a lot of subtext to that conversation Clint had had with Captain America, probably a lot more that he’d been oblivious too. Bucky was probably still wandering around in New York somewhere, unable to speak or touch, lost inside his own head.

 It was times like this that made Clint wish that he knew someone else, just one other person, who could talk to the dead. A mentor, an Obi-Wan-Kenobi or a Giles, someone who'd walked the same path and could tell him when he was doing it wrong. Just winging it might have worked for Clint's own problems, but in the face of everything Bucky had been going through that seemed completely inadequate.

“What should I do, Lucky?” Clint asked. Lucky briefly looked up from his position on the couch before drifting back to sleep. Clint sighed and swept off the table, leaving a trace of the ash from the letter on the wood. He didn’t know what to do, how to help. He should have just told Captain America what was going on, let the Avengers and SHIELD sort out who were the bad guys and who weren’t. They might have even been able to figure out who Bucky was and get his memories back.

But this was Clint’s problem now, and there was only one way left to fix it.

 

* * *

 

 

The alleyway looked pretty much the same as the first time. Actually a little worse: there was a new layer of spray paint over the righthand wall.

He wasn't necessarily expecting to find Bucky there, but he wasn't  _not_  expecting it either, if that made any sense. Ghosts were tied to places for a reason (even stupid ones), and if Bucky was confused about the new memories, maybe degenerating a little now that Clint had kicked him out, then he just might go back to where he'd started.

No signs of the ghost, though.

It wouldn't be a wasted trip, though; maybe he could find something in the alley that had drawn Bucky there. He looked around at the grimy sides of the building, so tall that he could barely see a sliver of sky up top. It was a shitty place to hang out, which drew the question of why Bucky would have been there in the first place.

"C'mon, c'mon..." Maybe he should have brought Lucky. If the dog could find a ghost, maybe he could find a clue, like some kind of canine Nancy Drew.

There was nothing.

After about thirty minutes of looking around, slouching into a casual 'don't-look-at-me' position whenever a pedestrian walked by the opening, Clint gave up. There was a park nearby with a Starbucks, so he headed in that direction to buy some time and think.

Where would he go, if he was an amnesiac ghost/former assassin?

Honestly, Clint didn't have the kind of imagination that helped here. Putting himself into Bucky's shoes led him absolutely nowhere; Bucky had been avoiding the Avengers like the plague, so SHIELD was out, as was the Avengers tower. Definitely not Clint's place either.

Where had they started out? Breaking into the Hydra base had been later, after Bucky had picked up some more memories. Clint wondered how much he'd remembered at that point. There must have been something about Hydra already in there, if he'd known where the flash drive was, and how to get into the base. The ghost had probably already been hiding it from Clint.

But they hadn't started there. Before that, they'd gone to the VA.

Clint groaned and reached into his bag, where he'd put Sam Wilson's card.

 

* * *

 

 

"I've gotta say, I'm really bad you came back, Clint." Wilson had slung an arm around Clint's shoulder and was casually/forcefully guiding him into the chair closest to the podium. "You know that this group is always welcome to you, right? No limits, no restrictions."

"Uh...yeah. Really swell." Great, was he picking up on Bucky's language too?

Clint really, really hadn't wanted to come back to the VA, but it was the only lead he had. Other than going directly to the Avengers tower, which he predicted would end with him being dissected in some SHIELD basement. What was he supposed to do, call up Captain America and tell him that his dead best friend/attempted murderer was lost and needed help?

Fortunately, Wilson was actually leading the group today. Clint eyeballed him from his suspiciously-front row spot. The guy was built, though not as much as Bucky, and it was pretty easy to picture him in the Falcon suit. Falcon wasn't one of the better-known Avengers (though to be fair, Tony Stark had been famous way before the Ironman suit was even a gleam in his eye, if for very different reasons) but Clint was still a fan. He was one of the ordinary guys; nothing against the super soldier serum or god-like powers or radioactive alter egos, but there was something to be said about a run of the mill guy being an Avenger. It made the team a little more relatable, he guessed.

The actual meeting was…interesting. Lots of stuff about self-empowerment, figuring out what you could change and what you couldn’t, how to define boundaries. Probably stuff he should try out, especially the last one.

After the meeting he had to wait at the end of a long line of people who wanted to chat with Wilson. He took his time with each one, forcing Clint to wait through each one until at last he and Wilson were the only ones left.

“Clint!” He smiled warmly and shook Clint’s hand again. The guy was a hand-shaker. “Listen, I’m really glad that you could make it.”

"Yeah, it was great…” Clint wasn't sure how to steer the conversation in an Avenger-related direction. He didn't want to out-and-out say that he knew Wilson's secret identity, but it was going to have to come up. Jeez, how did they do this in the movies? "So I was just thinking..."

"Hold on a sec, okay?" Wilson's gaze travelled over Clint's shoulder. "Hey, Steve. Would you mind hanging on for a few minutes?"

It was like Clint had swallowed a rock. Sinking feeling in his chest, he turned and saw Captain America enter the room.

"Clint, this is a friend of mine. Steve joins the group every other Wednesday, when he remembers." Wilson grinned, oblivious to Clint's rising panic as the captain approached, gaze locked onto Clint. He considered running, but given that the guy was  _Captain America_ , that probably wasn't an option.

"I know you," the captain said flatly. He stood tall, arms crossed over his chest and back ramrod straight. Not quite a position for attack, but not  _not_  one either. Clint was screwed. "You're the civilian who broke into the Hydra base last month."

Crap crap crap. Wilson was looking at him funny now, as if he was seeing Clint in a whole new way. Not quite a threat, but not a friend either.

"Uh...small world, huh?" Clint tried. It wasn't impossible for him to both be a treasure hunter  _and_ be a veteran in need of group therapy, right? That combination was probably more likely than ghost whisperers or superheroes, and both were in the room right now.

Rogers clearly wasn't buying it, though. Same as before, Clint's excuses just seemed to bounce off. "What are you doing here?" His gaze switched to Wilson, considering. "Did he follow you here?"

"I invited him, actually." Wilson was probably thinking back to their first meeting, whether or not Clint was likely to be deliberately seeking out the Avengers. Probably not, Clint realized, given that he'd been strong-armed into joining the group in the first place. "So he's the one who found that flash drive?"

"SHIELD cleared him." Obviously Rogers was reconsidering that. "No ties with Hydra."

Great, so he'd been under the radar then. Right up until he screwed it up with this mess.

"Why are you really here?"

Clint tried to repeat his story, but Rogers just shook his head.

"I don't believe in coincidence anymore. Aliens, magic, super soldier serums--I can swallow that, but you're showing up here? No. No civilian could have gotten into that base unaided. Who helped you?"

The ghost of your old best friend, Clint thought. He wondered if that was on the believable list. He kept quiet.

"Whoever's helping you has an agenda of their own," He said slowly, as if Clint hadn't realized that by now. "Not necessarily a good one. But maybe the better question is why you've come here."

Clint had really not planned to be confronted about the whole breaking-into-Hydra thing. He'd hoped that Wilson would be useful, somehow, but this was too much.

But maybe it was time to admit that he was in way over his head, and ask for help.

"Okay--okay! You were right about that, I did have help getting into the base." Clint admitted.

"Who helped you?"

Clint bit his lip. He definitely couldn't tell Captain America that.

"I can't--I can't tell you what's going on right now," Clint said. That was a stupid, stupid thing to say to Captain America and Falcon, but it was the only thing he could say. He didn't think they would detain him, it wasn't their style, but he was most definitely pushing it. "But I promised a friend that I would help him, and I think I let him down. I have to make things right. And I need more information about the flash drive."

Rogers watched him carefully. Clint didn't know what he was looking at. Could he read the secrets that were probably written all over his face? Could he see the nervousness in the way his hands clenched?

"Forty-eight hours," He finally said. Wilson looked like he was going to protest, but Rogers ignored him. "Then we bring you in."

Clint was about to blubber out some thanks when Rogers held up a hand, silencing him. "The _only_ reason that I'm letting you go is because whoever's helping you is more well-informed than SHIELD. Whatever it is you’re doing, you’re making more progress than any of us.”

"My recommendation?" Rogers sighed, probably thinking back. "I was attacked for that flash drive at the Smithsonian. I would try there."

 

* * *

 

 

In hindsight, the Smithsonian was an obvious starting point. And as Clint stared up at a giant display of Bucky's face, he privately imagined kicking his own ass.

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. Former first lieutenant of the Howling Commandos, childhood best friend of Captain America. Born in 1917, died in 1945--which was the problem. Ghosts didn't hang around that long; they were always a few days out from death, fresh enough to have a grudge or a regret. He'd seen the movies with Victorian chicks floating around in long dresses, but it didn't work that way. And when he remembered the other things Bucky had said, about things in the modern-day...that part didn't make sense.

Something was wrong. Bucky wasn't a normal ghost at all.

'They got that part wrong, you know.' Clint started and turned; behind him was Bucky. He wasn't looking at Clint; instead, his gaze was fixed on a grainy black and white photo of a high school class. 'We didn't graduate in the same year. High schools were different--we all graduated at 16.'

"Sounds like more memories are coming back," Clint said, feeling awkward. The last time he'd seen Bucky, he'd practically exorcised him from his apartment.

'They are.' Bucky turned towards him. 'What do you want?'

"I just..." It sounded as if Bucky didn't want his help. That was probably bullshit; as Bucky had noticed earlier, ghosts couldn't get much done on their own. Something about being near Clint made them stronger. Even now, Bucky was starting to look a little more transparent, more tired of clinging to life.

"I wanted to apologize," Clint finally said. "For what I said."

'You were right, though.'

About what, he didn't elaborate. Clint tried to wait him out but was too impatient for that.

'I remember a lot of things. I--Clint, I'm not a good person. If you could see the things I've done...' He swallowed. 'You'd regret ever finding me.'

God, who knew what he remembered. For Bucky Barnes to have survived this long into the future, having worked for Hydra all that time, something horrible must have happened to him, and even worse done by him. And now he was a ghost, trapped in his own memories and trying to undo the harm he'd caused.

The silence was oppressively heavy. He couldn’t talk, but he could whisper.

“Do you know who the first ghost I met was?”

Bucky slowly shook his head.

“I was eight-years-old. My brother came up to my bed and pulled me off it, told me that we had to go. I didn’t know what was going on, but I could see the police lights through the window.”

Red and blue, over and over, sweeping over his tangled blankets and Barney’s wide eyes.

“My mom wouldn’t say anything. She just watched from the doorway when the cops came in and took us away. Barney fought; our dad taught him that cops were pigs, not to answer their questions, so that’s what he did. He was so mad—I was so mad, that mom just let those guys in without telling dad.”

“They took us out to the car and made us get in. Looking through the windshield—that was the last time I saw the house. My mom was standing in the front door; her mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear anything. I could have run out of the car, gone back for her, but I ignored her.”

Clint smiled. “You probably figured it out. She’d died, in a car accident with my dad. She probably came back to check on her kids—a lot of the women do that.”

“Since…ever since then, I don’t ignore ghosts anymore. Whatever they have to say, it’s important.” Clint sighed. “Obviously most ghosts aren’t as much of a pain in the ass as you, but still.”

Finally, Bucky spoke. ‘You’ve already helped me. You put your life on the line, and I didn’t even thank you. I just took off when things got bad.’

“Yeah, and that was pretty shitty of you. But judging from what I’ve heard from Captain America, what we did was probably the right thing to do.”

Bucky frowned at him, and –oh yeah.

“Guess you missed that part. I met Captain America.”

Bucky seemed a little dumbfounded. ‘You did?’

“Twice. And he thinks that there’s something up. And I don’t think he wants SHIELD involved just yet.” Clint grinned. “And you know what? I’ve worked with a lot of ghosts, and you guys always disappear after mission accomplished. So that tells me we’re not done just yet.”

‘But we got the flash drive.’

“And obviously that’s not the whole story. Why’d you want it in the first place? What did you remember about it?” Clint asked.

Bucky’s gaze shifted, back to the image of Steve Rogers up on the wall. Finally, he spoke.

‘That doesn’t matter.’ He raised a hand to cut Clint off. ‘I’m not going to risk your life for this again. We did what needed to be done already.’

Clint looked steadily at Bucky, trying to will him into compliance. He wasn’t having any luck—Bucky had gotten a stubborn look on his face. It reminded Clint a little of himself.

“Well, thanks for caring about little old me, then.” Clint gestured at the wall. “But there’s obviously unfinished business between you and Captain America, and my new mission is to fix it.”

‘It’s not your—it’s not your job, to deal with this. You’ll just get yourself killed if you stay tangled up in this.’ Bucky ran a hand through his hair, looking as if he wanted to pulled it out. ‘You don’t even realize—you know that it might be it, right? This might be the end—I’ll be gone.’

And that hurt to hear. It must have shown on Clint’s face, because Bucky’s tightened and he looked away.

"Look,” Clint said sternly. “You're going to have to trust me, alright? We’re in this together, till the end of the line."

Bucky stared at him for a long time. Clint felt weird too, like the tables were turned, Clint leading them into danger while a reluctant Bucky was dragged along. But instead of nervousness or fear, all Clint felt was absolute certainty.

Finally, Bucky nodded.

 

* * *

 

 

Clint and Bucky stood in the entrance to the alleyway.

This was where Bucky had been tied to Earth, before Clint and Lucky had found him and brought him home. That meant something, Clint had explained to Bucky on the way over. He wasn’t like Captain America, he knew that coincidences happened, but not when it came to ghosts. There was something important here.

“Just look,” Clint said, lightly pushing Bucky further into the alley. “Anything that sticks out at you.”

‘It’s just an alley way, Clint.’ But he still peered at the walls and up at the sky above.

“Just—concentrate. Think back to what you remember. You knew where the Hydra base was and how to get in. Why did you come here at the start?”

Bucky sighed and closed his eyes. He took one breath, two, three. ‘I don’t know. It’s…it’s not that I _came_ here, it’s more like I couldn’t leave.’

Clint watched him carefully. He’d noticed it before, but it was getting more and more obvious. Bucky breathed like a living person.

He had no idea what that meant, and he was a little afraid to find out.

Bucky was looking up now, again searching for a hint. So Clint looked down instead, at the dirty floor.

“You said that Hydra likes to hide their bases where people don’t look,” Clint finally said. “Nobody would look here. Not SHIELD, not Captain America.”

‘No,’ Bucky followed his gaze. ‘No, they wouldn’t.’

It was more obvious the longer he looked. There, on the floor, was a faint square, formed by the dirt falling through the cracks of an opening.

They weren’t looking for a thing. They were looking for a place.

 

* * *

 

 

Clint had to say, breaking into Hydra bases was getting easier.

Having Bucky by his side helped too; unlike the first time around, he was sure that the ghost would have his back. When he told Bucky that, the ghost just shrugged. 'Well, someon's got to.'

“My hero,” Clint jested. “We’d better keep it that way. I’m not really cut out for this Avengering business.”

Once Bucky was gone, that would be the end of it. Clint would go back to his normal, ghost-busting life, and Bucky would move on. That was how things worked, no matter how often Clint wishes otherwise.

Bucky shrugged. ‘Foiling Hydra’s plots. Sneaking into secure areas. Risking your life to help someone else. Last time I checked, those were all things that the Avengers do.’

Clint didn’t have a reply for that. It was true, everything he’d said. It hadn’t felt all that heroic when Clint was actually doing those things, but maybe that was how it went for the real Avengers too. A bunch of people just trying to do what was right with what abilities they had.

‘You should talk to them, after…after this is over.’ Bucky continued. ‘They could probably use someone with your abilities.’

“Eh. Most ghosts aren’t tied up in international crime organizations. It’s usually more run-of-the-mill ordinary things that I have to take care of.” And Bucky was the most nonordinary person he’d ever met.

‘That doesn’t mean it’s not important.’

They paused at a whisper of sound from above, but the base still seemed empty. Eerily similar to their first go-around. Finally, Bucky moved forward again, following some internal map that Clint couldn’t see.

“Well, maybe I can be a sub-Avenger then. You know, like a sidekick. Bucky, the superpowered ghost and his human radio.” Clint could probably pull off tights; he’d worn worse in the circus.

But Bucky would be gone then.

The ghost seemed aware of that too. He paused, then reached out to grasp Clint’s shoulder.

‘I’ll try to put in a good word for you.’ He finally said.

“You do that.” Clint quickly turned away. “So, this way?” He changed the subject.

Whatever compass Bucky was following, it led them downstairs. The base wasn’t abandoned; Clint could see footprints in the dust that otherwise coated the place. There were old computers, with the blocky monitors that went out of style in the 2000s, chairs neatly lined up at their desks. It was as if the place was barely used. It was exactly the kind of place that a ghost would haunt.

Bucky was starting to slow down, looking around uneasily and sometimes doubling back to retrace his steps. He shook his head when Clint asked, gaze roaming around but unseeing. ‘There’s something…I don’t know. I feel strange.’

“Huh.” Probably not a good sign. But ahead of them was a door with a light underneath the edge, and together they approached. After a brief glance at each other, Clint reached out for the handle and pulled.

He didn’t understand what he saw inside.

Or maybe he did, but just didn’t believe it. In front of him was Bucky, enclosed in a thick plastic tube that extended from the metal base on the floor up thirty feet to the ceiling. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing; a layer of frost coated the inside of the tube and Bucky’s hair.

And behind him, the second Bucky took in a sharp breath.

‘What the hell?’

“I have no idea.” Clint ran forward, towards the control panel by the tube. Should he try to unplug the tube, or shut off the power? Why did Hydra have Bucky’s body on ice? “Should I try—”

Clint was cut off when a siren began to wail throughout the room. They both lifted their heads—on the catwalk above were footsteps, rapidly approaching, more and more towards their location.

‘Run!’ Bucky yelled, desperation stretching his voice. ‘Get out of here!’

“Not without you!” Clint slammed a fist down on the control panel, willing for _something_ to happen.

A dull hissing filled the room. The tube began to lift, releasing a cloud of vapor from underneath.

‘You idiot—they’re going to kill you!’ Bucky shoved at him, pushing him away from the control panel. But it was too late; the entrance had filled with Hydra guards, trapping Clint inside. Clint backed up and reached into his bag, pulled out his bow and nocking an arrow in place. It wouldn’t do much good, but it was better than nothing—better than letting these guys get away with this, with all the things they did to Bucky, were going to do. What they’d been doing with his body, what kinds of experiments they must have done to still have it after all these decades…a deep, rolling fury was building up in his bones.

“Hold your weapons.” A commander appeared, easily parting his men like water. He stopped two feet before Clint, looked him up and down with a curious look on his face.

“The civilian who broke into our New Jersey facility.” He nodded to himself, putting things together. “And here you are now.”

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Clint spat out. When he didn’t get a response, he slammed his fist back onto the console. “Why’s _Bucky_ here? What’s going on?”

“I would think that you know the answer to that better than me. I am very, very curious about how you found this facility, or learned the identity of the winter soldier.”

That must have been their name for Bucky. Clint growled back, “You did this to him.”

“Oh, no. That work was done decades ago, by hands more talented by mine. All I can do is use the gift from the last great generation.” He had a cold smile. Clint knew that he wouldn’t leave the place alive.

“To answer your question,” He raised his head, looking around. “This is one of the storage facilities. The winter soldier isn’t always needed, so he is kept in a cryogenic state in between missions.”

The realization hit Clint like a ton of bricks. Bucky wasn’t dead.

He breathed in, held it, let it out. His knees almost dropped out from under him. Bucky was still alive.

This must be what it felt like. To be a ghost. To be so angry that something as petty as death was nothing, nothing compared to everything left to do, to feel so deeply that you would throw off your own body in order to stay in this world. 

The man waved a hand, ordering his men to fire. But before Clint could retaliate, get a shot off at least, a gunshot rang throughout the room. The man wobbled, but Clint’s gaze was already moving—back towards the tube, which was now fully raised to the ceiling.

And beneath it was Bucky, in the flesh.

 

* * *

 

 

“You can communicate with ghosts.”

“Yep.”

“And by ghosts, you mean the recently deceased.”

“Uh-huh. Well, and people in cryogenic comas.” Agent Hill looked questioningly at him and he shrugged. “That part’s new, actually.”

“And you chose not to share this information when we met earlier because…you didn’t think it was relevant?” Her glare could have cut steel; he winced a little but kept going.

“No—well yes, I didn’t tell you guys, but that was more the whole ‘not-trusting-spy-agencies’ thing. In case you wanted to dissect me. Or that you might just think I was crazy.”

“Mr. Barton,” She folded her hands on top of the desk. “In my career, I have so far encountered alien Norse gods, giant ants, secret Nazi organizations, frozen super soldiers” She took a brief and continued, “and now frozen brainwashed assassins. Trust me when I tell you that the ability to speak to ghosts is not going to phase me. Now, what _does_ bother me is that the ‘ghost’ you were in contact me was in fact one of the most well-known Hydra assassins on SHIELD record—”

“Ex.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s an ex-assassin. And ex-ghost, too. Until the next time he gets frozen, like you guys said.”

“There will not be a next time, Mr. Barton.” Hill was starting to look very annoyed. “For the time being, the winter soldier will remain under joint custody with SHIELD and the Avengers.”

That’s what they said, but Clint wasn’t sure. They’d told him a lot of things, after he and Bucky (with a real body!) escaped the base and made their way to the Avengers tower, Bucky stumbling over his still-thawing feet the whole way. They’d decided, after running a LOT of tests, that the cryogenic state Bucky was kept in must have allowed him to produce electromagnetic waves blah blah blah…but point was, whatever Bucky had managed to do, Clint had been the perfect ‘receiver’.

“Like a ham radio,” a Dr. Banner had told him. Clint hadn’t been a fan, but it worked, he guessed. What bothered him more was the thought of what must have happened before, how Bucky must have spent so much time wandering, without memories, in between the times Hydra had used him as a weapon.

That didn’t matter now, though. Clint wasn’t going anywhere.

“Mr. Barton, you are under no obligation to stay on base.” At last Hill was starting to get bored with him. “Rogers has insisted that we not keep you in custody, despite your multiple gross violations of several laws regarding necessary disclosure. However, I have been asked by my superiors to extend you an offer.” She slid another manila folder, slimmer and neater, towards him. Clint dragged his fingers over the surface, over the embossed SHIELD logo on the front. “SHIELD could use someone with abilities like yours. If you’re interested, there is a place for you here.”

Clint stared down at the table. Next to the folder, he could see a reflection of his face off the polished surface. It was funny how it looked so tired, yet he felt like he was about to lift off the ground, the way energy thrummed through his veins.  

He heard a low laugh and looked up. Bucky was still with Captain America, the two of them wrapped up in deep conversation after that first tense meeting at the base of the tower. Captain America had a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, as if he was feeling him, testing to see how real he was.

“I think I can find a reason to stay,” he said.  “I need to think about it.”

After Hill had finished interrogating him, Clint found a quiet spot to sit and think. The adrenaline rush was finally starting to burn off, and the stupidest things were drifting through his mind—did Lucky have enough food? Did he lock the apartment door? Had his boss fired him yet for no-showing again? In the midst of all that, Bucky came and sat down heavily next to him.

It was funny, all the little differences that a living body made. The moist pull of his breath in and out, the grit of dust beneath his boots, the mild heat that radiated off of him—it had never sounded so loud.

“So how’re you doing?” Clint asked.

Bucky laughed, softly—or maybe coughed, Clint wasn’t sure. Ghosts spoke so clearly; human voices were soft and mumbled in comparison. He looked over; Bucky was running his hands over his face.

“I’ve never been better,” he said. His hands fell away and Clint could see his face. “I’ve got my best friend back. I’m not working for Hydra anymore.”

 “It’s not all the same, though.”

“No,” Bucky agreed. He turned to look at Clint. “Well, you’re the same.” He smiled weakly. “Still needed help getting out of the base.”

“Last time I checked, I only needed one guy’s help the second time around.” Clint smiled back, a little uncertainly. “You’re not gonna need my help anymore.”

“Are you kidding? What happens the next time I go into a cryogenic state and need help?” Clint shook his head but Bucky went on. “Or—I’m gonna be stuck in the Avengers tower for who know how long, what if there’s a ghost in the attic?”

He went quiet after Clint didn’t answer.

Clint had played this song and dance before with ghosts. Once they got to the happy ending, there was always that awkward moment when Clint had to step back, remember that the ghost needed to move on, remember that he wasn’t a part of their story,

“You’re not going to need someone with my abilities on the team. You know that.” He kept looking at his hands, at the ground, anywhere but at Bucky.

“I don’t give a crap about the team. _I’m_ not on the team. You think they’re going to let a former Hydra assassin near anything classified?”

“It’ll sort itself out.” SHIELD wouldn’t ignore a man with Bucky’s abilities for long. “Then you’ll go and save the world.”

“I don’t—” Bucky broke off angrily. “You know something, Clint? This whole mess is going to be here for a while. It’ll take years to figure out what Hydra was doing with me, what crimes I’m guilty of, how I’m going to pay the world back,” He cut off Clint when he tried to protest. “Don’t. I’ll figure things out.”

He let out a long, heavy sigh. Clint wasn’t sure about that…what he’d heard from SHIELD about the winter soldier hadn’t sounded good.

“Right now, the only thing I’m certain of is that I don’t want you to leave.” Bucky twisted, forcing Clint to look at him. “I told you that I didn’t want to go into that base because I didn’t want to die. That’s still true. But more than that—I was afraid that I would have to leave you behind.”

Clint’s chest tightened. Fear, hope, the ever present certainty that things were going to go tits up.

“Ghosts always leave, you know,” Clint whispered. “That’s how it goes.”

“I’m not a ghost.” Bucky leaned in. “Not yet.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I will eventually post a (short) epilogue to this, once I finally stop neglecting 'Mr. Smith will see you now', so stay tuned! 
> 
> Thank you for any and all feedback! And of course, a big thank you to everyone who contributed to the challenge!


End file.
